|Oct/Nov 2001 • Poetry|
Before the Apocalypse
She has bent her body into a bridge
head slung back, hair landing on the pillow,
grounded only by her thighs wrapped
around his, the melting of two hips into one
as they swing in identical motion.
The window was left open, and now both suck
in dusk unaware that their lungs are filling
with the last of it. She opens her eyes,
sees his at an angle with cat-like wonder,
and breathes from his giving breath.
Hands crawl around to clutch at the wing-bone
remnants of his shoulder blades,
and she leaves crescent indentations
where her fingernails landed. It does not happen
at the climax nor at the beginning
but afterwards, when both sleep under the drizzle
on the roof, when the world closes over them, like an envelope.